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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805401">Lucky Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_neigh_sayer/pseuds/The_neigh_sayer'>The_neigh_sayer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M, Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:01:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_neigh_sayer/pseuds/The_neigh_sayer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1930, John Marston reflects on his life as he nears the end of it, and visits the gravesites of the people that have been the most important to him. A request from gangofgunslingers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lucky Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts"></a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John sat in a rocking chair on the porch, looking out at the farm, reflecting back on his life and all he'd been through over the years and how much had changed. The farm was bigger now--more animals, a second barn for storing hay and their tractor. Over the years they'd acquired more land and started planting crops. It had become quite successful--very different from how he'd anticipated it. Oh sure he wanted it to do well, but he didn't expect this.</p><p>Abigail would be proud, he thought with a wistful smile. She'd been gone nearly 17 years now; she'd died in her sleep. No one even knew she was sick. John had a hard time coping with it; he'd wandered around the house in a daze, not eating, not sleeping. Jack had to pick up the slack on the farm. After a couple of months he started to feel more like himself, but he'd never be the same again. He looked up at the hill behind the barn where she was buried, tears in his eyes. Damn, he missed her. </p><p>Laughter broke through his reverie and he looked over to see his grandchildren running around the side of the porch; Abigail, who was 12, being chased by Daniel, who was eight. He watched them as they ran past, envious of their youthful vigor. Just then Amelia, Jack's wife, opened a window to yell out at them about their chores. Abigail shouted back that they'd done them, and continued running gleefully. Little four-year-old Samuel was probably in the house with his mama. </p><p>John was suddenly wracked with a coughing fit. He had them regularly; sometimes they would leave him breathless and a couple of times he almost blacked out. And then he started coughing up blood. He remembered Arthur and what he'd gone through all those years before, so at the insistance of Jack he'd gone to the doctor. It wasn't tuberculosis, but it was something even scarier--lung cancer. And to make matters worse it was so far progressed that surgery, which was the only means of treatment in those days, wouldn't have helped him.</p><p>He had lost a lot of weight over the past few months, and was always weak. He'd always been on the thin side, but now he was gaunt &amp; looked like a ghost of his former self. He was literally living his last days. He couldn't decide if knowing he was dying was better than not knowing. </p><p>He saw Jack driving the tractor back after plowing the fields. He was immensely proud of his son. He was pretty much running this farm now with John being so sick, and he was doing a great job at it. They'd had to add on to the house to make room for their three children. Jack took great pride in his children and spent time with them, reading to them or telling them stories. John was happy he didn't follow his father's footsteps in that regard. </p><p>Jack put the tractor away in the shed and joined John on the porch. He stopped just in front of him. "Hey Pa, how are ya?"</p><p>John squinted up at him. "Hey son. I'm okay, I s'pose. Still alive."</p><p>Jack laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's keep it that way, okay?" Then he disappeared inside the house to get cleaned up for dinner. </p><p>The next morning John woke up in his bed feeling different. Strange. He couldn't put a finger on it, but he felt a weariness in his bones that hadn't been there. A sense of...finality. He got up and got dressed, trying to ignore it. As he was putting his pants on he was hit with a coughing fit that made him double over. There was blood on his hand and his head was pounding. He collapsed, and he heard Jack shouting just before it all went dark.</p><p>He woke up a few minutes later, laying on his bed, Jack and Amelia sitting on the bed with him. He looked around. "What are you two doing here?"</p><p>Jack looked at Amelia. "You had a coughing fit, Dad. You passed out."</p><p>"I know, I remember." John sighed. "I'm sorry."</p><p>Jack looked at him, perplexed. "For what?"</p><p>John considered him for a moment, then looked at Amelia who got the hint. She patted John's hand, stood, and left the room. John turned to Jack and said, "For everything. Everything that I ever did or didn't do for you. I was a terrible father for most of your life. I wish I'd gotten my act together sooner. You deserved better. I'm truly sorry for that."</p><p>Jack cleared his throat. "Pa, it's okay. You did the best you could. It's not like you had a great role model in that aspect."</p><p>John laughed ruefully. "You're definitely right about that."</p><p>He coughed, covering his mouth, then looked at his hand to find specks of blood. He sighed and looked at Jack. "I'm proud of you, son. You've turned into a fine man. You're a great husband, and a wonderful father. And you're doing great running the farm. Your mom would be very proud of you."</p><p>Jack's eyes glistened with tears. Why did it feel like his dad was seeking closure? </p><p>John sighed, suddenly very tired. "Son, will you do me a favor?"</p><p>"Just name it, Pa."</p><p>John paused and looked out the window. "I haven't been to Arthur's grave in a long time, and there's no way I could get up there by myself. Would you go with me? I'd like to go up there while I still can."</p><p>"Of course, Pa. When do you want to go? Now?"</p><p>John nodded. "Yes. I don't want to wait."</p><p>Jack paused, understanding the implication. A heavy sadness tried to settle on him, but he pushed it aside. "Okay, I'll go get the car ready."</p><p>He turned to leave but John grabbed his arm. "No, I want to go by horse. You know I don't like that thing."</p><p>Jack smiled and nodded. "Okay, Pa. I'll go get the horses ready."</p><p>He left the room, leaving John alone in his room.</p><p>Less than an hour later they were both mounted on their horses and heading away from Beecher's Hope and heading north. </p><p>They stopped briefly in Valentine, getting lunch at the saloon, though John didn't eat much, then continued their trek. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, with a slight breeze. The sun felt good on John's face, and for a little while he forgot he was dying. </p><p>They passed Bacchus Station and John looked at the bridge, remembering all those years ago when he and Arthur blew it up. How stupid they were, following Dutch blindly for so long. He shook his head, glad those days were over. </p><p>They rode on, then arrived at the little path to the weird little hobbit house. They rode their horses up behind the house as far as they could, then had to go the rest of the way by foot. Jack dismounted and went to John, helping him dismount. Jack looked at him, noticing how pale he looked. "You okay?" He asked.</p><p>John nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."</p><p>They walked up the hill, taking it slowly, Jack's hand on John's elbow to keep him steady. They had to pause at one point as he was hit with a coughing fit, doubling him over. Jack held him up, making sure he was okay. John gathered himself and they continued up the hill. His breathing was labored,wheezing with each breath. </p><p>"Why the hell did Charles put him up here, anyway? They are plenty of flat places he could've picked." </p><p>Jack laughed. "Come on, Pa, it's a nice spot, Arthur would've loved it."</p><p>John laughed through wheezing breaths. "Yeah, I know."</p><p>As they reached the top, John looked over and saw the grave marker, still standing after all these years. Jack stopped and let John go on his own, letting him have his space. The marker was worn, the words so carefully and laboriously carved into it by Charles nearly worn away by wind and weather. John ran his hands along the letters that spelled Arthur Morgan, and he let out a breath. Tears sprang into his eyes.</p><p>"Well, brother, I may be seeing you again soon enough." He chuckled which made him cough. "I ain't long for this world. But," he looked around, taking in the scenery, the breeze, the birds singing, "I suppose I've had a good run. I've been luckier than most, I guess." He paused. "I know we didn't always agree on everything, but, you were my brother. I miss you." His breath hitched. "Thank you. For everything you ever did for me. You saved me. I still owe you so much." The tears were flowing now, his breathing erratic. He started coughing and Jack ran up, grabbing him to hold him up. Once it settled, Jack said, "Dad, we should probably head back down. Set up camp for the evening."</p><p>John looked around, noting the setting sun, how it cast everything in a beautiful purple light. He nodded at Jack. "Okay, son."</p><p>He took one last look at Arthur's grave, and they headed back down the hill to their horses where they set up camp for the night. </p><p>They set out for home early the next morning, John looking more pale and weak than ever before. They got home as fast as they could, Jack knowing that his father didn't have much time left. </p><p>As they arrived at Beecher's, Jack pointed his horse toward the house, but John stopped and said, "I'd like to go to your mother's grave before we go inside. Could you help me get up there?" </p><p>"Sure, Pa." Jack pointed his horse up the hill and John followed. </p><p>At her grave, he helped John off his horse, and led him to Abigail's grave keeping hold of his arms; he looked like he was going to collapse. John slowly knelt to the ground and Jack backed off, giving him privacy. </p><p>John sat there, staring at her grave marker. He absently picked at the grass growing around it. Quietly, he said, "Darlin', I think my time is about up. I'll be seeing you soon, so you can yell at me about something I've done wrong or some such." A single tear ran down his cheek, settling into his scars there. He laughed ruefully. "Arthur was right, damn him. I am a lucky man."</p><p>He started coughing, worse than ever before. He couldn't catch his breath and his head felt like it was splitting in two. His chest ached, he couldn't breathe; somewhere far away he heard Jack yelling, "Pa! Pa!", but he couldn't see him, couldn't touch him. Then, it all went black. </p><p>He did not wake up. </p><p>Jack buried him there, next to Abigail. He visited their graves every day, sometimes with Amelia, sometimes with the kids, but usually by himself. He told them about the farm, and about the family. But, mostly, he just sat, and just listened to the wind.</p>
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